by: William Honachefsky
December 1980
"Six thirty, already?" Jim Johnson yawned disbelievingly into the predawn darkness and hit the off button of the alarm clock. He heard Duke, the Irish setter, stirring downstairs, pawing at the kitchen door in his eagerness to be out in the crisp January air. Finding his way through the semi-darkness, Jim clip-clopped down the spiral stairs. When he opened the door, the big setter catapulted out into the snow-covered quiet of the late-winter morning. Jim lingered for a moment at the doorway to watch the big dog race to and fro in the blanket of snow, sniffing, sliding, stopping then running again, and he couldn't help but smile at the dog's antics. Finally, however, the cold air rushing in forced him to close the door with a resounding slam.
As if on cue, Duke quickly headed down the street to what had become a daily rendezvous with the beagle bitch owned by the Richardsons. The small beagle, like Duke, boasted a champion pedigree, as did most of the dogs in the neighbourhood. In a development where the cheapest home was valued at $100,000 anything less than a champion quality pet would have been regarded with disdain. Duke was soon touching noses with the bitch, and the two wagged tails in recognition as they were joined by the VanNostrand's huge German shepherd, Prince, and a black Labrador belonging to a neighbour in an adjacent subdivision. In the way of their ancestors they circled each other, sniffed groins, and established leadership, a ritual they had carried out every morning for about a month. There was no doubt that the little bitch was in charge and bared teeth and bristling fur quickly reminded the three males of this fact when they overstepped the established line of authority. The pack circled somewhat aimlessly about the Richardson lot for several minutes until the bitch took a determined lead toward the rear of her owners' property. The morning wind currents were already carrying delicious scents across the barbed-wire fence separating the large Dilts farm from the rear property line of the Richardsons' lot.
Duke was the newest member of the neighbourhood pack, having arrived only a short 18 months ago. During the first few months at his new home, he was generally leashed during any excursions with the family members around their one-acre lot. That was until their neighbour Jane Richardson informed Jim that it wasn't really necessary to leash his dog since it was an accepted fact in the neighbourhood that everyone allowed their dogs to roam freely, despite local ordinances. After all, what trouble could they possibly get into? Mrs. Richardson pointed with pride to the openness of the Dilts farm surrounding their properties, and stressed the convenient access all the dogs had to it. It was an ideal place for the dogs to cavort and play, not to mention relieve themselves, thus preventing the browning of certain lawns and shrubs. Jim wanted to mention the possible conflicts that such unchaperoned forays might lead to with the farmer's livestock, but as the new neighbour on the block, he felt it wise to reserve his comments. Nevertheless, after the joys of dog-walking waned, Duke was allowed to become one of the regulars of the neighbourhood pack.
As the small group crossed through the barbed wire fence a rabbit skittered from beneath a clump of white spruce and across the snow-encrusted field, but the pack paid little heed and moved in a determined single file with the beagle bitch in the lead sniffing constantly. They were after much bigger game. Several hundred yards farther on, the bitch signaled with her tail that she had found the scent for which they had been searching and began to cast to and fro, exciting other members of the pack. The bitch soon had a fresh warm scent in her nostrils and with a single yelp she began to follow the trail across the open fields.
Down in the hollow, near an old stone springhouse, a whitetail doe and her two yearlings pawed at snow near the spring to expose some of the green grass that continued to grow there. Suddenly the big doe lifted her head and cocked her ears forward. She could hear the steady crunching footsteps of the oncoming pack and began to pace nervously, testing the wind for a confirming scent. She snorted once in warning, and raising her white flag, leaped across the spring and ran straight up the hill into the woodlot, the two yearlings following close behind. The climb up the hill through the crusty snow left all three animals short of wind, unusual for such normally vigorous creatures, but the winter had been hard and forage scarce. The buck yearling was already showing the first signs of starvation, and long-distance running, requiring the expenditure of large amounts of energy, could make the difference between survival and death.
By the time the pack had reached the springhouse, their intensity for the chase had increased to the point where even their owners would have been hard pressed to divert the pack from its mission. As the dogs headed uphill, the doe and the two yearlings took off across a cornfield and down into an alder swamp, hoping to slow the pursuit of the pack. Unfortunately, the snow cover left little hope that the trio could successfully elude their pursuers for very long, and after an hour of continued flight, the pack had closed the gap until only several hundred yards separated the pursuers and the pursued.
As the beagle bitch caught sight of the fleeing deer, she yelped excitedly. Spurred on by the bitch's cries, the big German shepherd now pulled forward past her and began to trail by sight. Sensing the danger the buck yearling panicked, missed his footing, fell, and could not rise. The shepherd was at his side in an instant, and with one fluid motion, sank crushing jaws deeply into the yearling's right hindquarter. The yearling bleated in pain as he tried unsuccessfully to kick his tormenter loose. The black Labrador, next to arrive, lunged for the bleating deer's throat and with one savage bit crushed its windpipe. Gasping its final breath, the yearling fell back to the ground. The shepherd released his hold and snapped at the deer's underbelly, ripping through muscle and skin until the deer's viscera spilled out into the cold January air. Duke grabbed the steaming, quivering entrails and dragged them from the still kicking yearling. He lapped up the warm blood and when approached by the shepherd, arched his back, snarling a warning. The shepherd and the Labrador continued to worry the carcass, biting, shaking, then playing a tug of war. The beagle bitch, indifferent to it all, lay in the snow licking her paws reddened by the lengthy pursuit. Several minutes later, she rose without a sound and headed back toward him. The three males hesitated at first, but soon turned and trotted after her.
Mrs. Johnson had the door opened for Duke as he bounded up the porch. "Come on, boy," she said. "Where have you been? Raiding someone's garbage again? Just look at you! Go lay down in your bed!: Duke circled his mat, then lay down thoroughly exhausted. Out in the snow-covered field less than 100 yards from the Richardson's home, the crows had already begun haggling over their unexpected feast, jockeying for the best position on the small carcass.
Mrs. Richardson, cuddling her little beagle affectionately in her arms, peered out her kitchen window. "Oh, those ugly birds," she exclaimed. "So dirty, so disgusting, they out to do something about them. Right sweetums?" She gently laid the little beagle in her bed by the kitchen door. "Tomorrow you can run and play again with all your friends. Sleep tight now."